Liberation
by Mrs. C. N. Riddle
Summary: After seven years as a Death Eater, a young man ponders his crimes in Azkaban amidst torturous hallucinations, as a mother searches for the ability to forgive. Sequel to Godric. Rated M for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: This story is rated M for graphic images, violence, and some mild language.

Format: This story is set up like _Godric_. Godric's POV first and then Hermione's; a line break signifies this switch. Godric is in the past leading up to when Hermione's POV takes place. It will be the same length as _Godric_ with the addition of an Epilogue.

Disclaimer: Godric is mine; everyone and anything else related to the Harry Potter series is under the possession of one JK Rowling.

Summary: After seven years as a Death Eater, a young man ponders his crimes in Azkaban amidst torturous hallucinations, as a mother searches for the ability to forgive.

**Liberation**

_Chapter 1_

Azkaban. The stories I've heard about it are true. The dirt and grime, the smell of urine, blood, tears, the loathsome creatures hiding in the corners, seeking the scraps of meager meals. The blood curdling screams. They never stop. I saw a man pierce his own eardrums with an old chicken bone the other day. I'm considering it.

I've been here for a little over a month now. I'm scratching little ticks into my flesh for every day I'm here with an untrimmed finger nail. The walls are covered in tick marks from past occupants, little blood stains and remnants of broken fingernails imbedded in the stone, but my body seems to be the perfect canvas. It's practically destroyed as it is, and the pain is welcome. I deserve it, don't I? Forty two tallies now decorate the underside of my arm. Only twenty four more to go.

Bellatrix is muttering to herself again. I hear her, but don't look over. She will be dying with me in a few weeks. Our crimes are too heinous to even receive the Dementor's Kiss.

She's started screaming again. I finally look over at the cell across from me. She's writhing on the floor, pulling at her clothes and hair, clawing at her face and arms. She's trying to throw something off of her. It is evident the nightmares are back. They've penetrated her reality. I assume it is the rats. The rats are gnawing at her flesh, and she is trying to fend them off. I've never been attacked by rats. A single bird of prey prefers my flesh.

I want to reassure her, try to convince her that it is not real. That it is her frontal lobe betraying her. But I don't. I sit and I watch as the blood rushes to the surface of her bare skin from the deep scratches she has inflicted upon herself. Had I seen this a few months ago it would have turned me on. Such a sick bastard I've become.

She stops screaming. I think she has passed out. Her limbs are not moving any more, but her chest continues to rise and fall rapidly. I turn back to the wall in front of me. I close my eyes, try to ignore the corpse of a little girl that has appeared before me where there was once nothing. Nearly seven years I've gone without these damn hallucinations. Nearly seven years I've managed to keep them at bay, but here with the Dementors, without my wand, without a victim, I'm lost.

* * *

Godric wasn't there when the Dark Lord was vanquished. He wasn't there to see the final moments of his biological father and master's demise. Part of me feared he had died in battle, that when they carried out the dead there would be my son. The other part knew that would have been easier. But here he is seated in front of me, chained to a chair, nothing but skin and bones, scars and filth, beside Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, awaiting his death.

Harry and I had found the Horcruxes. Seven years we had done research, seven years we had left the safety of our home to track down the remaining Horcruxes. It was painful. I had to leave my children for a few weeks at a time, never more than a month, but still long enough for my heart to ache. Ginny was a huge help. Having no children of her own, she doted upon my little Rose and Hugo.

The last couple of years had been easier. Rose and Hugo had gone off to Hogwarts. I was so proud when I heard they had become Gryffindors. Between their father's death at the hands of their older brother and my frequent absence, I was so grateful that the last few years hadn't affected them the way it had myself. As much as it hurt to leave them, Harry was destined to destroy Lord Voldemort, and he had stood by me after Ron's death. I had to stand by him. I had to make the world safer for my two remaining children, even if it meant destroying the world of my estranged eldest.

The final battle had taken place at Hogwarts. The younger children had been safely evacuated to Hogsmeade before the wards had been taken down by the Death Eaters. Harry had amassed an army of his own, taking the death of Ron as an impetus to bring change to the Wizarding World. He had rallied the dying Order, had managed to bring international support to Great Britain. The Muggleborn community had suffered almost two decades of torment and abuse. So after the hidden Horcruxes had been retrieved, we overtook control of Hogwarts, made the Room of Requirement the new base for our operations. When Voldemort became aware of the coup, we had already summoned enough reinforcements to defend Hogwarts from his onslaught.

The Horcruxes had, of course, been disposed of before our coup. Nagini had proved the hardest to destroy, but we had managed with the help of Draco Malfoy. Draco had long sought to leave the Death Eaters, especially after his father's murder at his master's hands over ten years ago. Instead, he had turned spy after accidentally running into Remus Lupin outside of an old Order hideout. Instead of a duel, he had apparently pled for Order membership, and unexpectedly became a crucial asset to our movement.

I had been present at the final battle. I was locked in a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange at the time. The bitch had mentioned Godric, had complimented me for raising such an outstanding Death Eater. I had attacked her in rage. How dare she mention my son!

It wasn't enough to just kill Voldemort. Through research and discussion with the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, we had discovered that Harry was an accidental Horcrux. Harry had to die. I had to prepare myself to lose another friend, to lose another person I loved. I didn't want to accept it. But what was the price for Harry to continue to live? Who else would suffer at the hands of Lord Voldemort?

So I was forced to watch as Harry sacrificed his life for the Wizarding World. As soon as the Killing Curse left the Dark Lord's wand, I turned from Bellatrix and cast a curse of my own. It had been our plan. Harry was to die, and I would have to be the one to finally end it.

I've heard that in order to cast an Unforgivable, the caster must truly mean it, they must truly focus their hate on their target. But I did not kill Voldemort out of hatred. What made my curse strong enough to kill the Dark Lord was the amount of love I had for Harry, for Ron, for my children, for all of the other Muggleborns, witches, and wizards whose lives this man had destroyed. For my son who he had taken from me. In the end, it was love that killed Lord Voldemort, and I believe it is love that prevented Harry Potter from dying when the piece of Lord Voldemort's soul inside of him was destroyed.

Harry is seated beside me now, holding my hand, his other arm around his wife. We are here to watch an execution. My son is scheduled to die today, and I am forced to once again mourn. I wonder if it will ever become easier.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Bellatrix is staring at me from across the narrow hallway. The hallway is so thin, I could probably reach my arm through the bars and touch her from here on the floor. I resist the urge. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot. She hasn't slept in days, but neither have I. It is somehow more terrifying to experience the nightmares in their world rather than in my reality. Here at least I like to think I can win. She must feel the same way.

She's opening and closing her mouth like she's trying to talk. She's probably screamed herself hoarse.

"He will come back for us, Godric." I laugh, actually laugh at her croaked words. She doesn't grasp the truth that the Dark Lord is dead, that he is gone. She's confused by my laughter; I see it in the way she frowns slightly. She was there when he died, but I guess she's too far gone to believe anything her eyes see. Can't imagine she has much of a grasp on reality anymore, so her truth must be somewhere in between fiction and reality. In her mind, he is coming for her once again.

She's still staring at me. I remember the nights when the nightmares would get too intense for us. When there was nothing around to sacrifice for our sanity. We would sit in bed and stare at each other like we are now. We would concentrate on each other until they subsided, until it was safe to break eye contact. Usually the night would end in sex. After her husband died in a raid four years ago, Bella would stay in my bed every night.

The sex was meaningless. I do not love Bella, and I never have. I used her, and she used me. It was a distraction from our mutual horrors. Before I became a Death Eater, a woman like Bella would have repulsed me, but after a few months of this hellish lifestyle, I saw her in a different light. I understood how the acts we are forced to perform begin to change who we are. I frequently find myself wondering if Bella was always mental, if she still remembers the days when she was sane. If she misses them as much as I do.

In many ways, Bella is like a child. She's incredibly excitable. She's always clamoring for attention. Her impulsive nature used to get her in trouble with my father; she would make rash decisions that would jeopardize a mission every once in a while. She can not sleep alone. Her insanity delves deeper than mine, her nightmares more intense. Where I have learned to remind myself that what I see is not always real, Bella does not seem to retain that sense of control.

Perhaps her childish nature is the reason I am so drawn to her. I realize now she is my substitute for Rose. I take care of her, soothe her late at night when she can not take the terror that befalls her when her eyes close. Rose turned fifteen two months ago. She's the same age I was when I left home, when I began my descent into insanity. I wonder what she looks like. I picture her with long red hair, taller than my mother, but shorter than Ron. She has eyes the same shade of brown as mine, and she is a Gryffindor. I like to think she was made Prefect this year, and she's a star player on the Quidditch team, because she was always brilliant on a broom. She's a Chaser like Ginny.

I wonder what she thinks of me. It has been seven years since I saw her last. Does she hate me? How can she not? I killed her father. I damaged her mother.

A Dementor has passed by. I hear they are phasing them out of Azkaban. I hope this will be my last encounter with one. The cold washes over me, sucking out the little warmth I'd felt in my chest as I recalled all the pleasant memories of my little sister. I'm hollow again. And the fucking bird is back. It is standing, staring at me with beady red eyes as pointed talons claw into my cot. Its sharp beak is clicking at me. He's hungry, and I must look appetizing.

* * *

They are executing Dolohov first. The Head of the Council of Magical Law asks him if he has any last words, but it appears his tongue has been removed. I have heard stories of people chewing their own tongues off in fits of insanity in Azkaban. I wonder if that is what happened to Dolohov.

The Wizengamot voted a few months ago to introduce execution for especially heinous crimes. It's all part of a plan to phase out the use of Dementors in the punitive system after they had betrayed the Ministry all those years ago when Voldemort came back to power. Now they use a poisonous potion that 'humanely' shuts down the nervous system of the drinker. It is like the euthanasia of dogs and cats in the Muggle world. My son was the first person ever sentenced to this fate, but it looks like he will be the third one to actually receive it.

I remember the trial so vividly. It was only two months ago. I had seen pictures of his mug shot in the _Daily Prophet_, announcing the beginning of a series of trials for former Death Eaters. Godric's trial was first.

His picture in the _Daily Prophet _had been startling. I had not seen my son in seven years, and had I not been on guard for his trial date, I never would have guessed it was him. But what caught my eye first was the headline. He had changed his name. It read '_Godric Gaunt First D.E. to be Sentenced'_. Gaunt. He had dropped my husband's surname and adopted that of the Dark Lord's inbred ancestors. That may have marked the first time I began to feel true anger at my eldest son's betrayal.

Not that I hadn't felt betrayed before. No, he had killed my husband. I had felt the sting of his treachery, but I had spent so many years blaming myself for the way Godric grew up, for the path he chose, that I had not allowed myself to feel anger at his actions. I was so busy trying to forgive myself that I had ignored Godric's capacity for free will. It was as though I had ignored Godric's ability to chose. But, it was one thing to drop the name Weasley, for Godric was not a Weasley. But, to adopt a surname so closely related to that of my attacker rather than my maiden name? It caused a shift in my whole perspective.

I sometimes regret going to the trial. I believe part of me had wanted to see Godric, to see just how much he had changed from the little boy I loved. There was a glimmer of hope in me that he would plead with the Council, he would apologize for his actions, show true regret on his face, and I would be able to put to rest my recent anger, convince myself that he had wanted to change, but had been trapped.

There were hundreds of people at the trial. The room was crowded, hot, and incredibly loud. The new Ministry had made all of the Death Eater trials public, much to the objection of the culprit's relations. I did not want him brought in front of such a large crowd of angry individuals, although most people did not connect Godric to me. Only a small number of family and friends knew my son's identity. I had raised him in hiding, and now he had changed his name. But to see so many people hate him without knowing what a lovely little boy he had been, it was painful.

When the two hundred members of the Council of Magical Law began to file into their seats, the room quieted down. I was horribly conscious of the empty chair in the center of the room. Soon those chains would be wrapped around my little boy. The room exploded into screams of violent profanity and unrepeatable insults announcing Godric's entry. I audibly gasped.

I refused to believe a live being was being led in before me. No, this was a corpse. The skin was white, almost translucent. It was pulled tightly over the bones giving the appearance of a skeleton wrapped in Muggle cellophane and draped with extra large tattered garments. Someone had placed a mess of long, matted black hair upon its head. The eyes were sunken in and violently bloodshot. There were ten little slits trailing up the right forearm. The one closest to the elbow seemed to still be oozing blood. The Dark Mark glared up at me from the left forearm.

The screaming from the crowd continued as I tried to hold back the tears. Harry clasped my hand in his. His face full of pity, but for Godric or me, I could not be sure.

The Council Head banged his gavel, attempting to silence the angry mob. It took several tries, before he finally used _Sonorus_ to yell "Quiet!" over the crowd. What was left of my son sat chained to the chair, looking passively forward at the Council. The Head began to read the formalities of the trial procedure, before he came to the list of offences.

Based on an analysis of his wand, over seven years, Godric had accumulated one hundred and twenty nine counts of arson, twelve hundred and sixty four counts of the use of the Cruciatius Curse, and three hundred and thirty eight counts of murder by use of the Killing Curse. On top of his wand analysis, he was also accused of using under-aged magic, treason, kidnapping, the use of illegal potions on multiple persons, and repetitive use of Dark Magic for nefarious means.

When the list was finished, the crowd begin to scream in anger. Those that were not screaming were holding loved ones who had begin to sob. I presumed them to be family of my son's victims.

I had watched his face as every charge against him was read. No change, no remorse in those sunken eyes, no emotion what-so-ever. I was trying hard not to vomit.

The Council Head attempted to call order to the court yet again. He asked Godric how he pled.

"Guilty."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

I was loyal to the Dark Lord. I will never deny that. But to say that I regretted his death. That would be a lie.

I had adopted the last name of his ancestors a few years ago. The guilt behind the name Weasley ate away at me. I had considered my mother's maiden name. _Granger_. But then I thought of her. Did I really need to be reminded of what I had done to her? I was becoming more and more notorious in the Wizarding World. Did she really need to be connected to me? I didn't want to cause her more pain, more isolation. So, Gaunt it was.

My relationship with my Master was a complicated one. He showed favoritism, and I was undoubtedly favored. My quarters were the nicest of the Death Eaters. I was chosen for the most important missions, the ones all the others coveted. He had even asked for my opinion a few times in terms of policy and actions.

I never hid anything from the Dark Lord. He had no need for Legimency against me, because I am not a liar. I despise liars. He could ask me a question, and I would answer honestly, whether it meant punishment or reward. Not many Death Eaters can say the same.

I was obedient. Whatever the Dark Lord asked of me, I obliged without protest. I completed my tasks efficiently and was rarely punished for botches or mistakes. I guess I gave him every reason to favor me.

But ultimately, I resented the Dark Lord. I did not want to be favored; I did not want to stand out. I wanted to be nameless, to be faceless, but in the end, every Death Eater knew who I was, and the majority hated me. It was the same situation I had tried to escape in a different place. Only death was the only escape this time. I didn't want to die.

I think back to the day I learned of his death. I had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. I had dueled with my mother's old friends, aimed to kill. Those had been my orders. And then a seventh year Hogwarts student had burst into the Great Hall, shouting the Dark Lord had fallen; Hermione Weasley had killed the Dark Lord. I Disapparated immediately.

My first reaction was panic. I was scared, terrified really. They were going to catch me; they were going to give me the Dementor's Kiss. It took me several minutes to realize I had Disapparated to my quarters in Malfoy Manor. Surely this would be the first place they'd check; I should run, go into hiding. But I didn't.

No, I stayed there, sat on my bed, stared into the mirror across the room. Wasn't being caught an unforeseen escape route?

My thoughts wandered as I waited for the raid. I tried to analyze my feelings towards the Dark Lord's demise. That it had been my mother who had cast the curse.

I knew then that I felt no remorse over his death. I had no emotional attachment to him, even though he had been my biological father. I had not been looking for a substitute father figure when I joined the Death Eaters. Quite frankly, I had considered myself the child of a single parent. It was actually a relief. I could break away from this lifestyle.

I was not surprised that my mother had killed him. It was very apt, wasn't it? It was his fault I existed, and hadn't I hurt her enough for her to have the necessary hatred to cast the Killing Curse? I wondered if her soul had been marred by the curse. If she would soon experience the nightmares, the dissolution of reality that caused me to kill almost weekly to keep it at bay. I did not want this fate for her. She should be happy now. Happy that her past tormentor was defeated, that her evil spawn would soon meet a similar fate. I wanted her to live the rest of her life in peace.

Sitting here in my cell, I think back to the day I killed Ron. I do this frequently, mostly to increase my self-loathing. I should hate myself for it. I did it for entirely selfish reasons. I hadn't thought about my mother, my siblings, and my extended family. I had wanted him dead, I had wanted my nightmares to go away. So I had killed him. And now I sit here for weeks on end, no way to get rid of the horrors, no way to make the terror stop. But I deserve it.

* * *

The anger. It had consumed me. I was angry at Godric, but more importantly, I was angry at myself for being so blind as to not realize what a monster I had given birth too. Harry thought I had started to sound like Ron when we discussed it. My thoughts almost took on the sound of his voice. _He's been manipulating you_. I wondered if he had been doing it all along.

When I got home from the trial, I had immediately gone into the backyard. Stopped and stared at the oak tree. Remembered the sweet little boy who would sit with me all night long. But then the anger came back, burning in my chest, trying to escape. _Three hundred and thirty eight counts of murder through use of the Killing Curse_. _Guilty_. I set fire to the oak. Watched as the anger in my chest fuelled the fire before me. Harry came outside, panicking at the sight of our backyard burning.

I snapped out of my rage, feel down to the grass, screaming at the sky in anguished frustration. I was miserable, so very miserable. Harry had come over and held me close. What would I have done if he had died too?

Godric was sentenced to death unanimously. Oh, how the crowd had cheered. No change in his facial expression the entire time. Was he dead inside or was he just indifferent to the terrible things he had committed? I like to think I know the answer now.

The execution was set to take place in sixty days. Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov were sentenced to the same fate that day. It was going to be open to the public as well. I felt like the Ministry was putting on their own version of a witch trial, and the whole crowd was rallying around a good burning.

As Dolohov breathes his last breath, Bellatrix is screaming before the crowd, shouting nonsense about the Dark Lord returning and eternal loyalty. The crowd is screaming just as violently back, and they begin to drown out her maddened screams. The guards have started to rise; they are trying to silence the crowd and the insane woman flailing in her seat. My son has turned to her. I see him mouth her name. She turns to him, stills, and silences. They just stare at each other, barely blinking. Her breathing is slowing. The guards and the Council have calmed the crowd. There is silence, and Dolohov's breathing has long since ceased.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

I cut my Dark Mark off this morning. The wound is still bleeding. Bella watched as I did it. She screamed for me to stop, said I was betraying Him. Said I would be punished when He returned. She's not concerned about my wellbeing. I screamed at her to shut up. The Dark Lord is dead and never coming back. She's broken down in the corner of her cell now. I'm not sure why I feel so guilty for snapping at her. Perhaps it's her fragility. I'm secretly afraid she'll crumble into a thousand little pieces under the slightest pressure.

The rats that have made their nest in my mattress are feeding upon the shreds of my flesh in the corner of my cell. I watch as they tear off small pieces. Watch as the strongest overpowers the others for the last scrap.

The snake on the mark had started to move. It had tried to climb up my arm. I had traced it with one of my untrimmed nails, and then I punctured the throat. Blood had gushed out of the severed head, but that didn't stop the body from moving. I am not sure why it terrified me so, but I was filled with such a strong sense of panic that I had started clawing at the tattooed skin, but my nails had begun to splinter, little pieces lodging in the sensitive flesh, and I was still far from removing the cursed mark.

I found a stone. I didn't have the time to sharpen the stone; the snake was trying to climb up my arm. It must have been determined to strangle me. I had placed the rock in between my gum and one of my decaying teeth. Slammed it into the root until the tooth came loose. I had used the stone to quickly sharpen the malleable tooth. The point proved effective. It took me only five minutes to carve the flesh out of my forearm. I will have to keep the tooth safe for my tallies each day. The last six shall be nice and deep.

The bugs keep trying to climb inside the wound. I am not sure if they are real or imagined. Either way I feel their little legs irritating the raw flesh. I scratch at them. I want them to go away, but they are persistent.

I'm conscious of Bella watching me again. She seems to have forgiven me for my outburst earlier. I think about asking her if there are really beetles feasting on the exposed tissue of my inner arm. I decide against it. She's the least likely to see reality as it is.

There is a relief inside me though. I feel it in my chest. I feel like I am breathing differently, more freely. The Mark was poison. I should have removed it earlier.

I am sitting in a pool of blood, not really sure if it is mine or not. It must be mine though. I'm the only one here. Not that that means anything.

I'm getting tired. My head is a little bit fuzzy. Have I lost too much blood? I hope not. I fear the rats will smell it all over me. Attack me if I drift off. Eat me alive in my cell. I die in six days anyway. Should I even try to stop them?

* * *

I have heard it said that time heals all wounds. Such a cliché. Such a lie.

No, time has not healed anything in me. Time is not that powerful. As time went by, I only felt my wounds deepen. I felt them become angry and inflamed. I felt them spread like an infection.

What heals wounds is closure, more like an ending of time really. But healed wounds leave scars. No one ever seems to talk about the scars.

What would my body look like now, if my wounds were no longer metaphorical? How would my scars look? The answer is seated in front of me, in the form of my marred son. He seems to be the personification of my hurt, of my pain. I feel the pain of a new wound opening as I gaze down at him, but closure will soon occur. His pain will soon end.

It will leave the largest scar I think. His death. The wound he caused me was the deepest, as short as his life was. But it is almost healed now. Soon there will just be a scar, and scars fade over time.

I think now I will replant an oak tree in the back yard tomorrow, to take the place of that charred stump. A new beginning. That is what this is, isn't it? I really don't like to see it as an end. No, it is a new beginning in my life. A new way to look at what has transpired over the last twenty-two years. They've given Bellatrix the potion. My son seems to be watching the life leave her eyes. She is dead, and they are now asking him for his last words.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

I die tomorrow. I will take a potion. My neurons will stop firing. Godric will cease to exist. Does it really matter? Didn't Godric cease to exist long ago?

I remember the question I used to ponder all those years ago, starting with my first raid. _What are their thoughts, now that they know they are about to die? _Am I not in their position now? What are my thoughts?

I regret…I regret everything. I hurt my mother, the extent of her hurt I will never know. I killed her husband because he didn't love me enough. I sacrificed his life to stop the nightmares that only started because I was angry I hadn't been told the truth. What has the truth gotten me? A death sentence? They had only been trying to protect me, and I had torn their lives apart along with mine. I was so selfish.

I had pledged unwavering loyalty and gave it to a man who had raped and tortured my mother because of her blood status. I have killed under his command and tortured countless people in his name, all under the guise of becoming a nameless, faceless peon. Was that what it was in the end, just a show? Did my loyalty really lay with him, or was I scared?

Did everyone at the end of my wand relive their regrets? Or did they focus on the things they will never get to do?

I will never get to apologize to my mother. She will never know the self loathing I have for the things I have done to her. Such a pity it took a death sentence to make me realize this. I am told I am given a final visit with my family tonight. That is if they chose to come. Will my mother visit me on my deathbed? Would I be able to apologize?

I will never find love. Was there someone out there destined for me? Am I fating someone to a world of loneliness? Who would want me anyway? Perhaps this was my fate from birth.

I will never have children. No chance to raise a little boy or girl. No chance to make up for my terrible mistakes by providing the world with a little angel. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe Ron was right, and it is in the blood. It is best to rid the world of the last Heir of Slytherin. Now the dirty blood in me can never contaminate the good in this world. People like my mother and Harry, people with true pure blood, they are the ones who deserve to live. Not me.

For the first time I think I accept my fate. If it means repentance for all the crimes I have committed, I willingly sacrifice myself. I know now the world will be a better place without people like me.

I sit back against the wall and close my eyes, allowing that vicious bird of prey to dig its sharp beak into the dead flesh of my arm. I am finally feeling as though some sort of justice will soon be served, some sort of peace will soon be attained.

* * *

The decision to visit Godric was one of the hardest choices I have ever had to make. Harry had been the one to finally convince me to do so. I needed to say goodbye to him; I needed a chance to let him apologize; I needed to let go of my anger.

So we set out to Azkaban, Harry and I. We were told we would have fifteen minutes, plenty of time to say goodbye. A guard led us up the stairs. I could hear screaming all around me, some of it pleading, some of it more of a sob, some of it entirely incoherent. He took us up five flights before we reached a door marked with a red skull and cross bones. It opened into a very narrow hallway. The guard informed us that all of the cells besides Godric's had been charmed to hide our presence, that way we wouldn't have to worry about anyone harassing us. He told us it was the second to last cell on the right. He would call us when our fifteen minutes was up.

I suddenly couldn't move. I could hear screaming echoing in the hallway, but I wasn't sure from which cell it was emanating. I was terrified, but Harry grabbed my hand and smiled encouragingly down at me. He began leading me down the tiny corridor.

I'm not sure anything could have prepared me for what I saw inside the cell. The first thing that had hit me was the smell. The smell of rotting flesh was almost overwhelming. I feared we had been too late, that he had died before we were able to say goodbye.

But he wasn't dead. He was crouched against the left wall of the cell across from a dingy, sheetless cot. A large, disgusting rat sat upon it, seemingly unafraid of our presence. Godric's eyes were closed, but his bare chest was rising raggedly, every rib visibly quivering underneath the translucent skin. His left arm was draped over his knee. The sight of it had made me gag and reflexively cover my mouth with both hands.

There was a large gash in the forearm where I had seen his Dark Mark glaring at me at his trial. The Dark Mark was entirely gone now and the edges of the gash were rough and blackened. The skin was evidently rotting away from the thin sinewy muscle beneath it. I knew immediately it had been self-inflicted. The exposed tissue itself seemed to be alive and moving. It took me a few seconds to realize maggots were wriggling within the flesh.

The other arm lay at his side and appeared to be in similarly bad shape. Little gashes ran vertically the whole way up the arm. The ones closer to the wrist appeared to resemble scars, but the shoulder was barely healed. I remembered seeing the ten little slits at his trial. There must have been more than sixty now. It occurred to me that this was how he had been keeping track of time.

"Oh, Godric." I had almost sobbed his name. I was not prepared for his head to turn. I was not prepared to see his face. When he turned with his eyes open and I saw a skull looking back to me, I collapsed to my knees, holding my hands over my mouth in an attempt not to scream.

"Hi, Mommy." He spoke the words so softly, in a voice so tiny I was transported back nineteen years to the night I had found him by the oak tree. I wanted to break down the bars, rush to him the way I had that night, hold him close to me.

"Is it really you?" He hadn't moved from his spot, and I wondered if he even had that ability. I nodded quickly in response to his question.

"Yes, honey. I'm here." My anger had evaporated, and all I saw before me was that innocent little three year old boy who needed my protection.

"I'm sorry, so sorry…" His voice caught in his throat. His eyes closed, his head titled toward the ceiling. He sat and breathed for several beats before turning back toward me. He opened his eyes. The last time I had made eye contact with my son was the day he left. I remember the coldness that permeated his gaze. I seemed to see it melt away before my eyes. He was looking at me like he used to. Looking at me with the kind of love only a child can possess for a mother.

"I'm sorry…I hurt you." His breathing was still ragged and his emaciated figure seemed to suffer with each breath. I wondered if he would even make it until tomorrow. I had gone into Azkaban wondering if I could ever forgive him for the things he had done to me, for the pain he had caused my family. But that man before me, that young man had suffered. He had felt pain, and now he sat on his deathbed, had known the finite number of days left in his short life, and I wondered what that must have felt like, what he must have been thinking this whole time in solitude. But my greatest fear had not come to fruition. He still loved. I could see it in his eyes now; he still loved me. There was only one thing to say.

"I forgive you."


	6. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

I am being led to my death. Two guards stand on either side of me. I don't really have the strength to walk the distance myself. I am welcoming death like an old friend.

I said goodbye to my mother last night. I tried to apologize, tried to let her know how sorry I am, how much regret I possess for the terrible things I have done to her and all those faceless people I have hurt.

They sit me down in the ugly chair with the chains. Is my mother in this jeering crowd now? Did she come to watch me die? I do not try to find her face. I want that little smile she'd given me last night after she said those healing words to be the last image I have of her before I die.

Bella is beside me. She is not ready for death. I see the panic in her eyes, the hysteria aching to be released. It doesn't take long after Dolohov's death for her to lose her mind. The crowd joins in, an opportunity to degrade us before the chance is so swiftly taken from them. This only enrages her. I feel the need to intervene. She shouldn't leave the world like this.

I speak her name. She turns to me. I stare into her eyes like I used to all of those lonely, sleepless nights that feel like decades ago. She visibly calms. Her breathing slows. I will not break eye contact, not until it is time.

The time comes. She is not given last words; the Council does not want another outburst. There is no danger of that now though; I know I have sedated her. We are still making eye contact as they force back her head, pry open her mouth, slide the dark red potion down her throat. We are still making eye contact as the light leaves her eyes.

My time has come. I think back to my question. _What are their thoughts, now that they know they are about to die? _

My mum's smile appears in my head. She is an angel when she smiles. Her words. _I forgive you_. Those three little words have released me. They gave me my first peaceful sleep in almost seven years. No corpses, no blood, no fire.

The Head Warlock has asked me for my last words. I look up at him, and there is only one thing to say before I receive this gift, before I am completely liberated.

"Thank you."

I tilt my head back, open my mouth willingly for the guard.

The liquid burns slightly as it slides down my throat.

I gaze up at the large window topped ceiling.

I watch as my bird of prey makes his assent toward the bright sky.

_I forgive you. _

Finally, I am free.


End file.
